


anything bare that's made of gold

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/F, M/M, a stripper and his businessman au, but make it tooth-rottingly sweet, parking lot handjobs, zuko is a little bit of a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25199902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Azula and Suki's bachelorette night leads to a surprising new beginning for Zuko. Yeah, Sokka twerks in this one.
Relationships: Azula/Suki (Avatar), Mai/Ty Lee (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 581
Collections: Amazing Fics I Like to Re-Read





	anything bare that's made of gold

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the chet faker song "gold," please also watch the video to see the inspiration for sokka’s outfit
> 
> find me on twitter: @kuviraava

“You’re late.”

Zuko groans beneath his breath, adjusting his earpiece, shooting a glare in the direction of the red Mazda that doesn’t know how to use signal lights when changing lanes. “I’m aware.” He glances into the rearview mirror, cuts a sharp right. “I’m on my way.”

“She’s getting pissed.” 

“Mai, just buy her a drink or something and stop guilting me. I said I’m on my way.”

A long-suffering sigh. “Are you gonna be this grumpy tonight?”

Look who's talking. “Goodbye, Mai!” He can hear her heave another sigh as he ends the call, coasting to a reluctant stop beneath a red light. The venue is still about ten minutes away, he’s still very much in his work clothes, and he’s starting to wonder if this was a good idea after all. The light turns green and he accelerates, searching his pockets, the glove compartment, inside the center console for the tube of chapstick he could have sworn he'd tucked away earlier that morning. _Why_ is he always losing chapstick? Maybe it's a sign.

It's not like it would be the first time he’s begged off a rowdy night out, though that’s likely the reason Azula was so insistent that he come. And it isn’t every day that his little sister gets married, so he supposes he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter anyway. 

Truth be told, these are the most exciting Friday night plans he’s had in a good long while, as his life has become pretty solitary in the past few years. It’s not something he minds, particularly; college was what it was, with all of the requisite bad decisions, alcohol poisoning, all nighters, life-changing realizations, and the eventual degree, which turned into another, and then a double Masters in economics and engineering. There’s something Zuko loves about being in a classroom, which he doesn’t tell many people because it sounds so infantile, but it’s true; it feels safe. Contained. And at the same time, a boundless mental expanse, the freedom of a singular focus, the grueling thrill of edging ever closer to a completed project, a tangible goal. 

The workforce is different: duller, but harder. His position demands a staggering amount of accountability, of self-governance and discipline. Traits he’s always possessed in droves, now buffeted against the competing necessity for leadership. He has an entire division of junior architects, programmers, and engineers to oversee, he’s never done so much public speaking or private mediation in his life, he falls into bed at embarrassingly early hours and spends his weekends in the gym, the bookstore, the tea shop, and at home. In that order.

Every weekend.

His phone rings again, and he rolls his eyes, accepting the call without checking. “Mai, I am _five_ minutes away.”

“Zuko, this is your father.” The deep, familiar rasp jerks him into sitting up straighter, as if he’d suddenly materialized in the passenger seat. “Ozai.”

“Yes,” Zuko grits his teeth against a hysterical laugh, looking left and flipping his signal, pulling halfway into the intersection as he waits for the oncoming cars to pass. This is _definitely_ who he wants to have a nice little chat with before walking into a strip club. “Hi, Dad. What can I do for you.”

“Where is your sister?”

If Zuko got a dime for every time a conversation with his parents began with this question, he’d have _significantly_ less student loan debt. “She’s probably busy. It’s a Friday night.”

“Busy,” Ozai mutters. “This list doesn’t make sense. It’s not giving me the option to purchase.”

Always with the non-sequiturs. “What are you talking about? What list?”

“The list for Azula and her...girlfriend.”

Jesus Christ. This is at least a definitive step forward; he’d called Suki Azula’s _pal_ for years after she’d introduced her as her girlfriend before their annual family ski trip seven Christmases ago. “Are you talking about their wedding registry?” He’s two streets away, and he is hanging up this phone by the time he pulls into the parking lot, come hell or high water. “Just tell me what you want to get them, and I’ll place the order.”

“When I married your mother, her father just paid for the wedding. Simple,” Ozai grouses. 

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“What about your mother? What did she buy?”

Zuko clenches his jaw, counts silently to five. “You have her number, Dad. I have to get off the phone. Why don’t you text me what you want to get them, then you don’t have to worry about it.”

Ozai makes a faint noise of disdain. “And have you given your Aunt Lo a call, like I told you to? Her dialysis nurse’s daughter is in engineering school, I believe you know that. Your aunt says she is free the same evening as the wedding. Nice girl.”

Zuko’s hands are clenched in the steering wheel by the time he finishes speaking, and his words are tight, pinched so as not to scream through his response. “Again. I’m not interested in that nice girl, or _any_ girls. Dad.”

“Right, right.” Zuko mouths it along with him, feels another sharp bubble of hysterical laughter rise in his chest. “Well,” Ozai continues, “I suppose I’ll speak with you soon.”

“Send me the registry items you want,” Zuko reminds him, shaking his head, throwing the car into park and glancing at the time on his dash. Shit. “Okay? Bye, Dad.”

“Tell Azula to call me,” comes the final terse command, and then the call disconnects.

After a moment of indecision, Zuko decides to leave his suit jacket and vest behind, reasoning that his black button down and black and grey striped pants are understated enough to pass off as dressier casual, though his glossy, pointed loafers give it away a bit. At least he can let his hair down, literally and figuratively. The bouncer stares a little too long at his scar, but he’s used to that, and he slips into the darkened, smoky room, immediately assailed by a thumping bassline and the smell of cheap vodka. It doesn’t take long for him to find them, guided by Azula’s high, sharp laughter at the far end of the bar. Her eyes narrow as she notices Zuko’s approach, and she rises to greet him with a bruising hug.

“You’re _late,_ dear brother.” She pulls away, grabs his chin and shakes it, her mouth set in a little scowl. “I told you not to be late.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. She doesn’t want to hear about delayed maintenance reports and uncomfortable performance reviews right now. “I _just_ got off the phone with our father, so cut me some slack. And give him a call tomorrow.”

“Oh, god,” she grimaces, her demeanor changing entirely, slinging an arm around his waist and signaling wildly to a buff bartender. “Please, somebody, anybody! Get my Zuzu some alcohol to drink immediately.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says, distracted, then glances around, taking in the mixed gender makeup of the other bartenders and waiters. “Where is everyone? And I thought...isn’t this a lesbian strip club?”

“You finally made it!” Mai says, appearing out of nowhere to snuggle into his other side. She’s in all black, as usual, her lipstick a deep brown. “Azula thought you were going to bail.”

“Justifiably,” Azula buts in, raising her eyebrow at him, before turning back to the bar and placing her order.

“Where’s Suki and Ty?”

Mai jerks her head back, in the direction of the stage, or runway, he doesn’t know what to call it. “They’re holding the table,” she answers, accepting a shot and drink from Azula, turning to him expectantly as he receives his. 

“What is this,” he questions, wary, sniffing the miniature glass. It’s a sharp, sour smell, and he can already feel the echo of the alcohol burn along the back of his throat. “Motor oil?”

Azula rolls her eyes, raises her glass. “Can you not be so _Zuko_ right now? Take the shot.”

“It’s literally who I am,” he mumbles, but takes it anyway, because he loves his chaotic little sister. It tastes like motor oil.

When they eventually wend their way back to the group’s table, having taken another shot and then ordered a round for everyone to take together, he appreciates anew that he’s here to watch people take off their clothing as _performance,_ which is not particularly novel or at all transgressive by his standards, though it nonetheless sends a mild line of heat up his neck. It’s been...quite some time since he last engaged in anything even vaguely sexual with anyone other than himself, and if his earlier suspicion is anything to go by, he may not be able to fade into the background as much as he’d originally assumed.

“Zuko, you’re here!” Suki yells, launching herself at him, grinning wide, then stepping aside to let Ty Lee do the same. “I knew you’d make it.” 

_“Great_ outfit,” Ty Lee declares, planting her hands on his shoulders, spinning him in a circle. “Did you and Mai coordinate again?”

Mai turns to them, one eyebrow raised in mild offense, her mouth a set line. “We don’t _coordinate.”_

“I also object to that,” Zuko complains, and they exchange exasperated glances. It’s an old joke that their friends seemingly never tire of.

“Whatever, Wednesday and Thursday Adams.” Ty Lee yelps suddenly and then flushes pink, whipping her head around to glare pointedly at Mai, who just looks back at her calmly. _“We—are—in—public.”_

“Anyway,” Azula says breezily, settling back further in her seat, pressed up against Suki. “Zuzu, we’ve decided, we’re finding you a husband tonight.”

Zuko fixes her with a strange look, then laughs. “Here? That seems...statistically improbable.”

“Hey, you never know! It’s an equal opportunity establishment,” Suki wheedles, nudging Zuko’s knee with her own, shooting him a wink. So his earlier suspicion was correct, after all. “The male strippers are supposed to be really good.”

“Why would you want to have your bachelorette party in a place with male strippers?” 

Azula tips her head cajolingly at him, raises her voice to be heard above the sudden increase in the music’s volume. “Because you’re my brother, and I love you. This way there’s something for everybody. Also, this is why if you bailed, I would have taken you apart with my bare hands and fed you to the pack of hungry feral cats in our backyard.”

Zuko doesn’t balk at these threats anymore. “Okay, that makes sense.”

_“May I have your attention, please!”_ comes the rolling boom from the stage, where a buxom, heavy-lidded woman in a red leather bra and skin-tight matching pants strides to the lip of the platform, summoning thunderous, anticipatory applause. “I want to welcome you to the Lion Turtle,” she croons, once the crowd has settled, and the low, smooth timber of her voice makes the previously riotous mass go even quieter, already under her thrall. “My name is June, and I’ll be your hostess with the mostest this fine evening.” She paces the stage slowly as she speaks, drops into a low squat, grins toothily at a table of women, who squeal, tossing dollars her way. “Hmm, eager, I like that. Flattery will get you everywhere, ladies.”

“Need refills on any of these?” A male voice interrupts right next to Zuko, and he turns, does an embarrassingly blatant double take at the vision before him. The man is tall, like, _very_ tall, thick and solid in a way that makes Zuko swallow rather desperately, suddenly parched. He’s attired in the club’s service uniform, which is to say, not very much: a pair of navy blue shorts that leave very little to the imagination, a cropped, deep v-neck white fishnetted tank. Zuko has never written poetry, but he feels a little like composing a sonnet to the rich burnt sienna shade of the man’s skin, the obvious strength coiled in his muscled frame, like some classical young hero, a demigod blessed with both glowing divinity and the ruggedness of man alike. His eyes seem to sparkle in the low light of the club, mouth curved into a small, appraising smile, and his hair is nearly as long as Zuko’s, threaded through with a few small braids and metal coils, pulled back into a loose braid. Three thin gold hoops adorn one earlobe. His mouth is moving again, and Zuko’s brain, overcome, feebly struggles to chug back online. 

A sharp poke in his shoulder finally does it. “Y—es!” He has no idea what was said.

The man exchanges an amused glance with Azula when she laughs out loud, then looks back at Zuko. “I asked what you were having, actually, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.” His hands. His hands are so big, and his fingernails are painted _red._

Zuko’s face floods with heat, and he shakes his head once with a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry, I mean, uh. A French 75, please.” Zuko has never had a French 75 in his life, he doesn’t know what is in it, or why it would even be on the tip of his tongue. The interested tilt of the beautiful waiter’s head tells him this isn’t a typical order, certainly not the one he was expecting, but it’s not like he can backtrack now.

“A man of particular tastes,” is what he gets with a wink, and Zuko does not _blush_ like he’s fourteen at that. He’s a grown man, he makes car payments and has life insurance and a retirement account. Thankfully, he’s given a short reprieve when the waiter’s attention is directed elsewhere. “Ladies, I’m all ears.”

“You know what? Zuko might be onto something,” Azula says craftily, poking him again. “I’ll take one, too.”

“And I will _not.”_ Mai peers into the dregs of her martini, contemplating, then looks up at the waiter. “Another one of these, please, but for the love of god, give me the good olive juice, not the watery shit.”

“Baby,” Ty Lee chides, shooting him an apologetic smile. “French 75 for me too, please.” she grins, sliding her gaze over to Zuko and tilting her head before looking back up at him. “So sorry, sir, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Sokka.”

_“Sokka!”_ she exclaims, her eyes back on Zuko. “So nice to meet you, Sokka. Isn’t it, Zuko?”

“Suki, did you want another drink?” Zuko asks pointedly, very aware of every single cell in his body, wishing, yearning, praying for death. She bites her lips against a smile, shooting a glance at Azula before turning to Sokka.

“Same as our _single_ friend here, I’ll have a French 75.”

Sokka’s lips twitch as he nods, his eyes finding Zuko’s once more before he addresses the table at large. “On it. Coming right up.” 

Zuko waits until he’s gone, disappearing into the crush of the crowd by the bar, before he shields his burning face within his hands, groaning piteously as he gazes down in dismay at the varnished tabletop. “I hate every single one of you.”

His words are mostly lost in their gasping, snorting laughter, and he peeks from beneath his hands to watch them continue to completely lose it, mostly at his expense. Azula wipes a tear from her eye, reaching over to lovingly tousle his hair.

“I mean, Zuko, I can’t really blame you. _Wow._ You didn’t hear that, love.”

“Right there with you,” Suki laughs, fanning herself wistfully. “I want to platonically climb him like a tree.”

“I can’t take you dykes anywhere.” He’s still trying to dispel the heat in his cheeks, get a handle on himself before Sokka returns with their drinks. Fuck, those shoulders, his _smile_ —Zuko reaches for his glass and upends it rather desperately in his mouth before remembering that it’s empty.

“Just get his number,” Mai suggests, giving him a rather pitying glance as he lowers it back to the table with a shameful clunk. “Jesus, how long has it been? You’re a disaster.”

“I love you too, Mai.” Two years since the breakup with Jet, ten months since a drunken, extremely ill-advised one night stand with a man whose name he, shamefully, has since lost. Not that she doesn’t know all of this already. “Appreciate your input.”

“Don’t worry, Zuko, we’ve got your back,” Ty Lee says brightly, and he shoots her a stricken look, which only makes her smile grow wider. She’s sincere, she’s _always_ sincere, which is what makes her so dangerous.

“Do _not_ have my back. Or my front. Or continue to perceive me in any way for the rest of the night. I thought we were here for the happy couple, anyway?”

“He’s got a point,” Azula says smugly, pulling Suki close, smooshing her nose against her cheek. “Hey, wifey.”

Suki giggles, flushing pink as she turns to meet her lips in a somewhat tipsy kiss. “Mm, hi.”

“Are they always like this?” Sokka asks, reappearing so suddenly at Zuko’s elbow that he flinches. Mercifully, Sokka pretends not to notice, smoothly placing the drinks on the table, and Zuko notices an extra shot they didn’t order. 

“Brides to be,” he explains. “What is that?”

“Brides…” Now it’s Sokka’s turn to flush slightly, and he shoots Zuko a small, sheepish look before turning back to the table at large, his eyebrows raised in self-deprecation. “Well, someone should have told me, because now I look like an idiot.”

“Let me guess,” Mai smirks. “That shot is for Zuko.”

“She’s perceptive,” Sokka responds, pointing at her approvingly. His manner is easy and jocular, pulling even a reluctant smile from Mai as she takes a sip of her drink. “Anyway, this round is on me. Congratulations! When’s the big day?”

“Thank you! Two weeks,” Azula responds blissfully, her chin burrowed over Suki’s shoulder. 

“Ah, here we go. Thanks, Haru, you’re the best,” he tells a passing waiter, swiping a bottle and tray of shot glasses. “You didn’t need these.”

“You’re lucky that I actually didn’t,” the other man grumbles, rolling his eyes as he walks away. Sokka catches Zuko’s eye and winks as he sets the glasses down and pours five more shots. “Don’t worry, you’re still special, cutie.”

It’s all so ridiculous, the tawdry, garish spectacle of this whole charade, but still, Zuko feels the wink down to his toes. “Um. Thank...you?” Words, why can’t he do words anymore? The despairing look Mai shoots him doesn’t make him feel much better.

“To your happiness, ladies,” Sokka declares, and throws back a shot with them. “I hope you’re planning on sticking around for a while?” His eyes keep sliding back to Zuko’s as if drawn by a magnet, which is both terrible and wonderful, as it makes him feel obligated to respond. Thankfully, he’s always been a lightweight, and the shot was strong, its loosening effects immediate. Maybe his words will start working again.

“Yeah, probably.” This club is hot, why is it so _hot?_ “Why?” 

Sokka purses his lips and hums noncommittally, raises an eyebrow as he shrugs. “I’ll be back to check on you all soon,” he hedges, gathering the empty glasses, giving Zuko one final grin before sauntering away. It’s a good saunter. Zuko has never seen such a spectacular saunter. His reverie is interrupted by a deafening bass drop, and the lights swivel to deep reds and purples, the curtains on the stage opening slowly, signaling the start of another performance. Azula crosses in front of Suki to lean in close to Zuko, yelling into his ear.

“He likes you, you stupid idiot!”

“He’s doing his job,” Zuko argues, shaking his head. “He just wants a big tip.”

Azula’s gleeful grin makes him groan. _“Yeah_ he does!”

Zuko just takes a sip of his drink, waving a hand at her dismissively until she tugs playfully at his hair, then straightens to watch the tall, lithe female dancer drop into a split onstage. As the place erupts in cheers and wolf whistles, Zuko can’t help but glance back to scan the area by the bar, hoping to spot that familiar long braid and broad shoulders before he realizes what he’s doing.

He ignores Mai’s knowing snicker and watches the performance instead.

//

A few hours in, Zuko is remembering why people do this. 

He hasn’t seen Sokka in a while, not since he’d brought their last round of drinks and nearly sent Zuko into cardiac arrest by scraping his fingers gently under his chin (“and another fancy cocktail for my friend here”), but the club has gotten so rowdy that the strange absence stings a little less. All of the girls have received multiple lap dances at this point, though most of Mai’s have come from Ty Lee, and they’ve since disappeared to the bathroom doing god knows what. Azula and Suki are in their element, voices hoarse from screaming and whooping at the endless succession of performances, stuffing dollar bills into a wide variety of unhygienic places before collapsing into giggles all over each other. After much cajoling, they even convince Zuko to buy a dance from a short, buff bald guy with an easy smile and the most intriguing geometric tattoos, which is fun and a little embarrassing but not particularly titillating. 

By the time Mai and Ty Lee return, flushed, hair mussed, and exchanging furtive, heated glances, Zuko is properly drunk, his shirt untucked and almost halfway unbuttoned, courtesy of the last dancer who’d taken a particular interest in him, and especially his hair. The place is so hot he doesn’t bother re-buttoning them, and he feels ridiculously overdressed, anyway.

“I’m just _saying,_ if you went into the last season expecting a satisfying ending, you’re an idiot,” Suki declares, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Six episodes? _Six?!”_

“And only six episodes in season seven,” Ty Lee adds, then swings her ponytail until it gently bops Mai in the face. “Mai’s still bitter about it though, aren’t ya babe?”

Mai growls, clutching her glass in both hands. “There was no rhyme or reason to any of it! Fucking Missandei! Why!”

Suki and Ty Lee exchange exhausted glances. 

“And the Night King’s defeat was an embarrassment!”

“Climate change, my ass,” Zuko mutters, shaking his head, half-distracted by the split ends he’s found in his hair, eyes crossing as he examines them. “It was a perfect allegory and they shat all over it.”

Suki sighs dramatically, places her hand over her heart. “Yeah, but, Arya! Come on, she deserved that win.”

“Wither the Prince That Was Promised?!” Mai all but wails, and Zuko reaches across the table to clutch her hand in solidarity. 

“Can you fucking nerds just get over it, _please,”_ Azula groans, putting the heels of her hands against her temples, her eyes wide. “It’s been a million years! Just wait for the book!” She realizes her mistake immediately when four pairs of eyes turn on her in enraged despair. “You know, whenever he writes it...”

“Hello, hello. This thing on?” June’s sultry voice booms, and Azula rolls her eyes in relief as everyone’s attention is directed back onto the stage. The bass is getting louder, which Zuko didn’t think was possible, and the sudden dimming of lights tells him _something_ exciting is about to happen. “Who’s enjoying themselves tonight? Let me hear you.”

“Can I get anyone anything?” comes another voice from nearby, but it’s a female waiter standing there, looking at them expectantly. Zuko cranes his neck to look past her to the bar, frowns. “I’m stepping in for Sokka for the time being.”

“Shots!” Suki shouts, and the other girls cheer. 

“Where is he?” Zuko asks, and she smiles knowingly. 

“Oh he’ll be back, don’t worry. Will you all be needing refills on those as well?”

Zuko nods absently, tuning out the rest of the conversation, watching June continue riling the crowd up, making a big show out of whoever is taking the stage next. He turns to ask Suki if she’s got any chapstick.

“What?” Suki yells back.

“—panties on, please, but keep those bills coming—”

“CHAPSTICK,” Zuko repeats, cupping his hands around his mouth as the lights flash. Suki screws up her face in confusion, shaking her head.

_“—Sokkaaaaaa!”_ June yells, and the audience goes wild, screaming and cheering and rising from their seats as she backs away, disappearing behind the curtain. Zuko’s neck nearly snaps with how quickly he turns back to watch the stage, blood thundering through his veins as the music changes to something low and pulsating, the singer’s voice a syrupy male falsetto. And then Sokka strides out in threadbare, low slung black jeans with a red and black plaid button-down tied around his waist, a bright blue cropped jersey tank, and his hair pulled up into a higher ponytail than before, revealing the cleanly buzzed undercut that was previously hidden. It’s an intriguing outfit, noticeably less ostentatious than any of the other performers’ leather and lace and frills, almost like something one would wear to run some errands.

But Zuko has never seen anyone like _that_ while running errands, especially not with those offensively chiseled washboard abs, which, like the rest of his exposed skin, glisten in the gently pulsating spotlight. Zuko wonders if there’s someone backstage who is tasked with slathering oil onto the dancers, or if Sokka applied it himself, which draws his attention back to Sokka’s hands, which are...sliding slowly up his thighs…

“—think he might pass out,” he hears Azula squeal, and he turns his head to address her, and all of his horrible, terrible friends, without managing to ever actually take his eyes off the vision before him.

“Fuck off, I deserve this.” Man, he’s drunk. He decides to consult his shot about it.

“That’s the spirit!” Ty Lee declares, and then Sokka whips the button down from around his waist and insinuates it between his spread thighs in a move so blatantly suggestive Zuko flushes from his scalp all the way down to his toes.

It’s not just that Sokka is breathtakingly gorgeous, or that he spends more than a fair amount of time in the gym—Zuko assumes—there’s also a self-assured _playfulness_ in his movements, just this side of cocky, but a little more laid back than that—that really gets Zuko up and running. It’s the kind of confidence he’s always admired in a man, the willingness to look a little silly, maybe, as long as he’s doing something he enjoys. And Sokka is enjoying it, Zuko can tell: his easy grin as he directs his attention at this fawning table and then that shrieking one, the sinuous roll of his hips as he’s showered in dollar bills, it’s inviting, and hopelessly endearing.

Zuko shifts a bit in his seat as Sokka sails smoothly off the stage, thinks about crossing his legs, wonders if it would be too obvious. He’s receiving so many tips that June has to trail behind him with a small tub to collect the fluttering bills, but Sokka continues to devastate anyway, stopping sometimes to mouth the words of the song, blink coquettishly at an older couple, then plopping onto the man’s lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and performing a quick grind while his companion clutches her chest and laughs. He tosses a wink to the man and rises again, pirouetting perfectly on beat through another cluster of tables, snatching the hat off of a young woman’s head and placing it on his own before dropping to his knees in front of her, ripping open his top until it hangs in tatters, grabbing her hands and bringing them to rest of his pecs.

“Oh my FUCK,” she yells clearly over the pounding music, blushing scarlet, prompting laughter from the crowd, and drawing a bright grin from Sokka, who leans in to kiss her on the cheek. Zuko doesn’t care or mind, at all. And then he realizes, quite abruptly, that Sokka’s current meandering trajectory will bring him right to their table, and he isn’t sure if it’s intentional, but he is sure he’ll need to have a gameplan, because if he’s struggling to fill his lungs with air right now he isn’t optimistic about the immediate future.

And then, as if he’d heard Zuko’s thoughts, Sokka looks over, finding his gaze unerringly across the crowd, and unzips his pants.

“Am I bi?” Suki gasps, as Azula makes a dramatic show of fainting in her arms. “Zula, you’re, like, actually sweating.”

“Who _authorized_ this man?”

Gold. His pants aren’t off yet, just opened wide, and there’s an unmistakable gold shimmer at his crotch, which are presumably briefs, presumably designed to prey on Zuko’s rapidly fraying nerves. Sokka shimmies the tattered edges of his tank top from his shoulders and down his arms before tossing it somewhere behind him, glancing back and grinning when a group of rowdy middle aged men all make a grab for it, knocking over several chairs in the process. Then he continues in his quest of making every single person in the room embarrassingly horny for him: swooping to stare deeply into a young woman’s eyes as he drains the rest of her drink, then grazing his fingertips over the cheek of her husband; jumping onto a table to pour a glass of water over his head, letting the drops trail down his neck and chest, rolling off and dropping to a low squat, keeping in perfect time with the beat as he arches his back and bites his lip, bouncing his considerable backside in a series of moves so unexpectedly lewd that Zuko groans in agonized defeat, his face on fire. 

Thankfully, the sound is lost in the immediate roar of the crowd, and when Sokka bodyrolls back up to standing, smirking, Zuko is even more dismayed to watch his very slow, very deliberate saunter to their table, can do nothing but continue to watch with bated breath as he stops in front of Zuko, swiveling his hips and shoulders, his movements lithe and languid. And then his hand on the back of Zuko’s chair, and then said chair is jerked forward in his grasp, and Zuko has to bite his lip when Sokka lowers himself to straddle his thighs, his body burning with heat, glowing with sweat. Zuko feels like a man dying of thirst, and the only thing that could possibly quench it is the man gyrating in his lap, blue eyes boring into him with an intensity that raises goosebumps along the back of his neck and down his arms, all across his back.

“Hi,” Sokka murmurs, his movements never faltering, and when Zuko finally releases a tiny, shuddering breath, he smiles knowingly, bringing his other hand up to twine around Zuko’s neck. His voice is pitched low, only for Zuko’s ears. “Missed me?”

Zuko’s hands are clenched so tightly into fists he’s half afraid he may never be able to unfurl them again. Sokka smells like alcohol and sweat and coconut oil and he wants to lick him like a lollipop. A _lollipop?_ Dear god. “Maybe.”

Sokka’s answering grin is so brilliant it takes his breath away; it’s somehow too open and earnest for their current setting, and it makes his heart clench a bit in his chest, even as he struggles not to move. He knows Sokka must feel how hard he is; it’s impossible not to with the way he’s grinding into him, but he won’t be the one to mention it. “Wanna give them a show?”

Zuko has no idea what that means, but he’s very drunk and thus having trouble summoning the wherewithal to question anything this beautiful man is saying, even if he’s like ninety-nine percent certain Azula covertly snapped a picture just now. He makes a mental note to never run for office. “Okay, sure.”

And then Sokka’s lips are on his, warm and soft and plush and _fuck,_ he can’t do anything but clutch at that broad, gorgeous back and open his mouth to sweep their tongues together, trying not to moan too desperately into the kiss but not entirely sure he succeeds. Sokka kisses like he hasn’t eaten in days and the way he tangles his fingers in Zuko’s hair and angles his head to lick deeper into his mouth shoots straight down to his cock, and he’s only saved from doing something very stupid by Sokka having the presence of mind to pull away, his eyes gazing into Zuko’s with hot promise before he leans back in to put those perfect lips at his ear. “Back parking lot in ten minutes.” And then he’s up and off of Zuko’s lap with a wink, and the din of the club rushes back in like a wave, almost—but not quite—drowning out the pounding of blood in Zuko’s ears.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Azula screeches into his ear the second Sokka has ambled away, and Zuko can only manage a feeble “uhhh” because Sokka is, at that moment, wiggling his pants off his hips, revealing the shiny gold briefs he’d only caught a glimpse of before. The whoops and screams rise again as he tosses the pants onstage before following them, vaulting himself up and undulating his hips with his arms outstretched, his thick length outlined clearly in the thin material, pubic hair dark and trimmed around the muscular V of his thighs. 

So it's like nine, eight and a half minutes by now, right?

“What was it like,” Mai leans over to ask Zuko, and he shoots her a slightly desperate look, shaking his head, wanting to wipe his sweaty palms on his thighs but his trapped dick is currently still too much of a wild card to risk any needless friction. 

“I want to fucking _eat_ him.” In vino veritas, indeed.

“Yeah, babe, I know.”

And then Sokka’s hand is closing on the pole, and Zuko’s chugging desperately at his drink as he swings himself upward with a disturbing amount of ease, his legs crossed against the smooth metal as he climbs and climbs, muscles tensing and flexing beneath his skin. The screams erupt even louder when he hangs upside down, and there are a few startled gasps as he drops a few feet before coming to an abrupt stop, and then he sails back up to sitting, grinning toothily at the crowd, a few tendrils of hair now clinging to his face. Zuko can’t do anything but marvel at the strength in his calves and thighs and _glutes,_ bless them, as Sokka balances on the pole and leans outwards, the power of his core as he braces himself and then spins and spins and spins, finally lowering himself to the ground again and grinding against the thick bar, thrusting suggestively at the crowd. 

And then. Then he’s hooking his thumbs into the front of his briefs and dragging them down for the briefest second, a cruel taunt, exposing the gorgeous, half-hard cock that’s curved to the right within his tight briefs before snapping them back up again with a saucy wink and dropping to a bow as the song ends, laughing as the crowd screams, begging for more. Two additional helpers come out to scoop up the storm of dollar bills, and he takes one more bow before blowing kisses and exiting the stage, the clear capstone of the night, an undeniable crowd favorite. 

Zuko’s cheeks balloon out momentarily as he releases a puff of air, his stomach a tangle of pleasurable knots. Sokka _kissed_ him. In front of everyone. Was that normal? Did he always pick some poor infatuated asshole to publicly make out with every time he did this? 

“When I said we’d find you a husband, I didn’t mean it so literally,” Azula says, knocking him in the shoulder, and Zuko finally floats back down to earth. She’s staring at him like she’s never seen him before, though there’s a gleam of pride in her eyes. “What did he say to you?”

Zuko glances at the stage, where June is now addressing the crowd again, and then slides his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It hasn’t been ten minutes. Right? He’s too scatterbrained right now to think of a lie. “He told me to meet him outside.”

“Then why are you still sitting here?” she shrieks, at the same time Suki yells something similar at him, and Ty Lee shoves him, hard, while Mai just laughs out loud. 

“Okay, okay!” he laughs, glad he’s managed to get himself somewhat under control as he stands, a little wobbly on his feet. This couldn’t possibly be a good idea. “Uh...see you later?”

“You got this, champ,” Mai winks at him, waving him along. God, he loves her. He gives them a stupid salute and then finds a bathroom, needing to empty his bladder and make sure he doesn’t look as pathetic and sloppy as he feels before he goes to find Sokka. Find Sokka...what the hell was he doing? Sokka was a stripper, or exotic dancer, or something, and Zuko was a thirty-something year old loser who watched The Great British Bake Off in his spare time. 

There’s nothing in his teeth, and he needs a haircut, but that’s neither here nor there, and he’s managed to avoid spilling anything on himself, so. It will have to do. He gives his reflection a final smile, then wide grimace, accidentally makes eye contact with another guy washing his hands in the process, and nearly clocks someone else in the face exiting the small restroom. All in all, a very typical succession of awkward encounters, made worse by the slightly manic thrum of excitement flowing through his veins at the prospect of seeing Sokka again, alone this time. He makes his way through the crowds of people standing around, a few of them recognizing him, which is horrifying (“hey, aren’t you the guy who—”) and then he’s shouldering open the side door and breathing in the cool blast of night air, the sudden quiet a relief after hours within the eardrum-splitting club. 

The sidewalk is empty, though, and Zuko glances around, heart sinking, before he follows it around the side of the building to the back lot. When he turns the corner, Sokka is leaning against the wall, dressed in a pair of normal jeans and a grey t-shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders, a black scrunchie on his wrist. Zuko doesn’t know why, but the sight of the scrunchie makes it feel like his heart is performing cartwheels in his chest, a feeling that’s only exacerbated when Sokka looks up at the sound of footsteps, smiling shyly when he sees Zuko standing there.

“Aaaare you going to stay over there all night?” he asks finally, his voice low and playful, and fuck, Zuko is so fucked, this guy is too adorable to be allowed. He comes closer, holding Sokka’s gaze, and can’t help but laugh, a little overwhelmed. Sokka’s smile goes a little crooked in confusion. “I got something on my face?”

“No, just…” Zuko has no idea what to say, how to quantify the hundreds of thoughts racing through his brain. “I’m, uh, not good at this.”

“Good at…” Sokka trails off, his eyes traveling Zuko’s face as if trying to read him like a book. “Talking to someone after they kissed you in front of three hundred people, maybe? Sorry about that, by the way.” He actually looks a little sheepish, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrows at Zuko. “I can be a little, ah, impulsive sometimes.”

Zuko blinks. “You don’t have to apologize. I liked it.” His face burns at the admission, but his mouth and his brain aren’t quite in sync, though maybe that’s a good thing. 

Sokka just lets the moment hang, staring at Zuko, his smile growing again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well.” Sokka uncrosses his arms, reaches up to pinch Zuko’s collar, tug at it playfully. _“Zuko._ What’s your deal, Mr. Businessman?”

“My deal?” Zuko sways slightly forward, pathetically beholden to Sokka’s gravitational pull. A car rumbles by, its headlights gleaming against Sokka’s face, the brick wall behind him, and then it darkens again, leaving a calm silence in its wake. “Just here for my sister’s bachelorette. I don’t usually do this.”

“This, being…”

“Going out. Meeting people. Meeting—someone.” Zuko swallows as Sokka’s fingers skate lower, hook into the space between two of his shirt buttons, pulling him closer. Zuko moves in, has to brace his hands against Sokka’s hips for balance, feeling lightheaded. He doesn’t know where to look, Sokka’s eyes are almost too intense, but his mouth is equally dangerous, and any lower, absolutely not. He settles on his nose. It’s a good nose. “Is that a normal part of your performance?” he hears himself ask, and wants to kick himself.

Sokka’s nose crinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Kissing someone.” Now that he’s said it, he might as well follow through, because he really _is_ curious. Not that it matters. Zuko is a big boy, he doesn’t expect every hookup to be The One. “Just wondering.”

“No! No,” Sokka chuckles, then clutches at Zuko’s shoulders, dropping his head until it clunks against Zuko’s chest. Zuko looks down, surprised, unsure of what to do. “I’m...probably going to get in trouble for that. We can touch the customers, kind of tease them, you know, but...full on make outs are typically a no-no.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So...” Zuko licks his lips as Sokka raises his head again, and then he’s so close, and Sokka’s dragging him even closer, until their lips brush again. “Uh…”

“You have such a way with words,” Sokka grins, tilting his head, pressing a kiss against his lips, and then another, and another, until Zuko finally gets his head in the game and opens his mouth, and then they’re off to the races again, tonguing each other with slow urgency, and it’s the most delicious and perfect thing Zuko’s experienced in a long time, a really really long time. Sokka’s arms are around his neck again and Zuko doesn’t know how his hands found their way beneath his shirt but there they are, and Sokka’s skin is so hot and smooth, and then their hips are bumping together, pulling a low moan from Zuko as he presses back more insistently, Sokka’s back hitting the wall as Zuko pulls away and moves down to bury his head in Sokka’s neck, inhaling, opening his mouth wide to suck a patch of skin between his teeth, worrying it, then soothing it with his tongue. Sokka hisses, his hands dropping down to Zuko’s waist as well, pushing up beneath his shirt, spreading his hands over Zuko’s stomach. “Fuck,” he moans thickly, arching his head as Zuko continues his ministrations, fingers clenching against his skin. “I, can I—”

“Yes, Sokka, anything.” Out of his mind, he’s out of his mind, and it’s never felt so good. He pushes Sokka’s shirt out of the way to suck a bruising kiss into his collarbone, and then he muffles a cry in the soft skin when Sokka’s knuckles brush against his rapidly swelling erection, spurred back to roaring life. “Oh god.” He pushes into Sokka’s touch, just breathing into his neck, trying and failing to suppress a shaky whine as Sokka unzips his pants and reaches in, closing a fist around his aching length, fingers a burning brand. Zuko thinks of those red nails again, his knees a little weak at the reality of them wrapped around his dick. “Oh god oh god oh god.” 

“Why are you so cute,” Sokka groans, giving him a slow stroke, and another. “Even your sounds, jesus.”

“Don’t call me cute, you have my dick in your hand,” Zuko complains breathlessly, and Sokka huffs a surprised laugh against his cheek, kissing it, bringing an unexpected blush to Zuko’s face.

“Sorry. I mean, no I’m not. You really are,” Sokka rambles, dragging his lips down to give him another crushing kiss, swirling his thumb slowly over the head, humming when Zuko pants against his lips. “But fine,” he mumbles into the kiss. “How’s sexy? Or insanely hot. Does handsome work?”

“Do you always talk this much?” Zuko grumbles, shoving his hands between them to wrestle with the enclosures before pulling Sokka out of his jeans as well, gratified when the other man cries out at the firm touch. Sokka’s thick and hard as marble and burning hot in Zuko’s hand, and his mouth waters as he looks down at it, at the way precum is already drooling from the fat head, feeling selfishly, immaturely glad that he gets this up-close-and-personal view when no one else inside did. He smears his palm through the slick and uses it to ease the way as he jacks him thoroughly, his pulse jumping at the way Sokka pushes himself greedily into Zuko’s hand, at the way he continues to stroke Zuko so perfectly in turn, his mind spinning off into increasingly lewd fantasies. “Anyone could come out here right now,” he realizes suddenly, not that it would stop him, not that anything could prevent him from touching Sokka, now that he’s got him beneath his hands.

Sokka gives him a curiously mischievous look, his hand picking up speed, leaning in to nip at Zuko’s jaw. “You into that?” he asks in Zuko’s ear, and Zuko shudders, his breaths turning into shallow pants.

“I guess so.” He swallows heavily, looking down again to watch their hands working, the stubborn jut of their cocks hard and leaking between them, feels his balls begin to tighten. “Fuck. Sokka. The fuck are we doing.”

“I’m about to come my brains out, I don’t know what you’re doing.” Sokka gasps a laugh into Zuko’s ear, bites it, slaps Zuko’s hand away to encircle both of them in his grasp. “This may be a weird time to ask, but can I get your number?”

Zuko clamps down on the skin between Sokka’s neck and shoulder with his teeth as shockwaves of pleasure rocket through him, rather sooner than he expected, rutting into Sokka’s grip with a wild gasp. It’s endless and slick and almost painfully good, the roiling heat between them a delicious contrast to the late spring nighttime air that gently ruffles through his hair, cools the sweat forming on his brow and against his lower back. When he comes down, finally, he takes a moment to just breathe, rocking his head back and forth against Sokka’s shoulder with a contented moan.

“Uh, was that a yes?” Sokka asks in a tight voice, and Zuko chuckles, spent, nosing in for another kiss as he takes him in hand again, savoring the weight and girth of his cock, imagining what it would feel like in his mouth. 

“Yeah, Sokka,” he smiles, “You can have my number.” He increases the speed of his strokes, squeezing tighter around the head, and Sokka stiffens, releasing a hoarse, guttural sound that Zuko immediately files away to replay later, his cock pulsing in thick spurts all over Zuko’s hand and wrist and utterly ruining his pants, probably. 

He gives Sokka some time to recover, sweeping his other hand up and down his back, pleasantly surprised when he moves in for another kiss, this one slow and easy, so achingly tender that Zuko’s eyes flutter shut with a shaky sigh. 

Some time later, Sokka pulls away, presses his forehead against Zuko’s. “Uh,” he says quietly. “Yeah. We have to do this again.”

Zuko bites the inside of his cheek, hard, then pulls away, lifting his shirt to wipe his hand against the inside of it, looking down at his pants in dismay. At least it’s dark. He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Sokka. “It’s okay if—” he begins, and Sokka takes the phone, raising an eyebrow at him. “I don’t expect you to—”

“You’re going to be fun, aren’t you,” Sokka snickers, not unkindly, his thumbs flying over the keypad, and then he darkens the screen and hands the phone back to Zuko. “Just because I dance professionally doesn’t mean I’m some scumbag, I want you to know that.”

“I didn’t say you were—”

“I’m four years into my PhD and this is the best way to offset expenses.” It’s a little precious, seeking Sokka suddenly so visibly insecure, and Zuko bites his bottom lip against a smile. 

“Someone’s defensive.” He almost regrets his words when Sokka blushes. Almost.

“I’m usually a lot cooler than this. I mean, you saw me inside! You make me a little nervous.”

“I make _you—”_ Zuko gapes, shaking his head with a wide grin. Oh hell. Oh, _hell._ He really fucking likes this guy. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.” Sokka crowds in again, cupping Zuko’s jaw with both hands, kissing him squarely on the lips, then just staying there, holding him close. “Okay. Okay. I have to go, French 75.”

Zuko huffs a self-conscious laugh, palming Sokka’s face and shoving him away. “Fuck off.”

“Such a fancy man,” Sokka laughs, grabbing his hand and bringing it back down to their sides, entwining their fingers before hastily letting go, flushing red again. “This is me.” He gestures to another door, the employee entrance, Zuko assumes. His face is slightly downcast, which sends another slow curl through Zuko’s belly.

He taps the pocket with his phone, shooting Sokka a small smile. “I have your number.”

“Use it.”

When Zuko gets back inside, before he finds the girls, he unlocks his phone, checking his texts. There’s a new one, outgoing, sent to an unknown number.

_Sokka—good luck on your paper that’s due Wednesday. Celebratory drinks after you submit? You’re treating *winky face emoji* *winky face emoji* *eggplant emoji* *water droplets emoji*_

//

“Is it weird that he’s here? Be honest. It’s a little weird, right?”

“Weird by whose standards? Zuko, you seriously need to chill out.” Mai adjusts his tie, brushes imaginary lint from his shoulders, brows furrowed, and then licks her thumb and smooths down his right eyebrow, nodding in approval.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Five minutes!” Ty Lee trills, breezing into the room with an armful of flowers and looking around. “Suki?”

Mai jabs her thumb toward the veranda. “I think she’s practicing her vows again.”

“I told her not to over-rehearse,” Ty Lee sighs, making a beeline for the door. Zuko looks into the mirror, examining the intricate, swirling pattern of braids pressed against his scalp on the left side, the wavy hair left loose on the right. He wonders if Sokka will like it, and the thought sends a warm flutter through him. 

“It’s only been two weeks.”

Mai inhales and blinks slowly, a sure sign that she’s trying not to roll her eyes. “And you’ve been together for ten days of them.”

She has a point. 

He's about to ask Mai for some chapstick when the door opens again, admitting Ursa, who’s holding a small box, her face pinched with worry. “Zuko, where is your sister?”

He frowns, craning his neck to look behind her out into the garden, which is packed with people, mostly sitting, while Uncle Iroh provides the music, playing his harp. “I thought she was with you?”

It’s the truth, but it’s the wrong thing to say. Ursa’s eyes widen in panic and Mai steps between them, holding up a hand. “Okay! She’s here somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you find her,” she says quickly, shooting Zuko a significant look. “Zuko, you stay and make sure Suki doesn’t know—make sure she stays calm,” she finishes hastily before rushing out, holding up the long train of her skirt. Ursa sighs and turns to follow, then pauses, glancing back at Zuko. 

“I think I saw your friend earlier. He’s very cute,” she says simply, giving him a small smile and patting his cheek, before hurrying out after Mai.

//

“I can’t _believe_ you saved my sister’s wedding,” Zuko murmurs hours later, as Azula and Suki giggle together at their table, faces flushed from the champagne and hours of dancing. Fireflies wink slowly in and out of view as the day settles into dusk, and most of the older guests have already said their goodbyes and headed home, leaving only the young ones and closest family and friends still milling about the open patio overlooking a quiet lake. 

Sokka laughs, tightening his hold around Zuko’s waist as they sway slowly on the dance floor, one of the only couples still going, though thankfully no longer the source of much attention. Zuko thought he’d melt into the floor from humiliation with the fuss his aunts and uncles made over Sokka, Aunt Li going to far as to pinch his cheek, and Aunt Lo still talking up her dialysis nurse’s daughter, making her disappointment in Zuko’s lack of interest clear. Thankfully, and unsurprisingly, Sokka handled it all with aplomb, even the stiff meeting with Ozai, who nodded his gruff approval when he learned that Sokka was a former soccer player. Zuko wonders what he’d say if he knew how Sokka got the majority of his workouts now. “She just needed someone to spew her nerves to. And I just happened to be there in the parking garage, having a very minor panic attack about meeting...your entire family.”

Zuko groans, pressing his smile into Sokka’s neck and shaking his head. Sokka always smells so _good._ “I’m so sor—”

“Do not apologize,” Sokka interrupts firmly, grasping his hand and spinning him outward, prompting a self-conscious laugh from Zuko, who glances around before looking back at Sokka, twirling back into his arms. “I like it. I’m glad I’m here," Sokka muses, then tips his head contemplatively. "And your sister is kind of a maniac, so it made me feel a lot better by comparison.”

“It runs in the family, unfortunately.”

Sokka laughs, his eyes roving over Zuko’s face, as he thumbs his chin gently. “Yeah, no kidding. But I think I’ll keep you, French 75.”

“Sokka—” Zuko can’t _take_ it when Sokka says things like this, so sure and confident, like he has the power to mold the future to his will. His lips twitch when Sokka widens his eyes and gazes at Zuko with overly patient fondness, waiting for him to continue. “How can you s—”

“Oh, shit, oh my god!” Azula yells suddenly, and everyone turns in alarm to see her jumping from her seat and dragging Suki forward, who is snorting with laughter. It's a miracle they don't trip over their dresses. “We forgot to throw the things! The getting-married things!”

“She is so drunk,” Zuko sighs.

“What is she talking about?” Sokka wonders.

“Okay, eligible ladies, line up! Come on, come on, come on,” Azula shouts cajolingly, beckoning the women forward, holding a small bouquet in her other hand. Zuko whistles innocently as he sidles over to Mai, nudging her pointedly in the back.

“I refuse,” she says darkly. “This is an _insipid_ tradition.”

“Someone needs some more champagne.”

“Only if you want me to vomit everywhere.”

“—two, one!” There’s a two second hush as the bouquet sails through the air, and then a cacophony of shrieks as the women assembled make a grab for it. When the victorious hand clutching it emerges from the center of the crowd, it’s attached to a beaming Ty Lee, who squeals and launches herself at Mai, peppering kisses all over her face. 

“Okay, okay, this may be a dyke affair, but we didn’t forget about you boys,” Azula continues, prompting a shocked _“Azula!”_ from Ozai and Ursa in unison while Uncle Iroh cackles from his seat. “Sorry, sorry, _lezzzzzbian._ Ready, boys? Oh wait, love, you do this one.” Suki grabs another bouquet and turns around, then glances backward. 

“Okay, here we go!”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Mai snarls, grabbing Zuko by the collar as he tries to inch away. 

“Mai, this is _not—”_

“A- _ha!”_ Sokka’s triumphant laugh punches the air, and Zuko whirls around, heart pounding, to see Sokka holding up his four-year-old cousin, Lu Ten II, who’s got the bouquet clutched in his arms, grinning widely. Sokka sets him down, gives him a high five, and then winces in mock pain, shaking out his hand. “Ouch! Jeez, you’ve got a heavy arm, kid. Told you we’d make a good team.” When he straightens, chuckling, his eyes find Zuko, tilting his head in happy confusion at Zuko's expression. “What? Something on my face?”

This time, Zuko doesn’t care who the hell is watching as he hauls Sokka in for a kiss.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ursa: so! how did you boys meet?  
> ty lee: *sprays wine out of her nose*
> 
> also will someone PLEASE get zuko some chapstick


End file.
